Transitory
by Flash Foreward
Summary: While Claude is training Peter, Peter starts to wonder about the anger and apathy that Claude hides behind. Can Peter crack through Claude's protective wall and find out exactly what the invisible man is hiding? Plaude.


**Disclaimer:** I don't own Heroes

**Transitory**

"C'mon!" Claude shouted, thrusting at Peter's ribs with his make-shift staff. Peter expertly dodged it, but wasn't quick enough to avoid the follow-through that collided with his shins and sent him crashing to the ground. He grunted as his knees hit the cement of the roof, but he shook away the pain as quickly as he could to be ready for Claude's next attack.

The staff whistled over his head as he ducked away from it. He let himself fall the rest of the way and rolled quickly away from Claude, but the other man was just as fast, and the minute Peter was on his feet again the weapon met his shoulder.

He cried out as the pain from the entire training session slowly caught up with him, spurred on by Claude's relentless beating, but still the other man did not stop. Anger welled up in Peter and he tried to focus on the many powers he'd absorbed over time.

The staff smacked into his back and all his concentration left.

"Stop," he growled through clenched teeth. "Just, stop."

And as he braced himself for the next attack, he heard wood clatter against concrete. He glanced to the side and found that Claude had dropped the staff. He quickly twitched his gaze to the other man's face, but found it as passive as ever, nothing there to tell Peter what was going on in his mind.

"You still thinkin' about them?" Claude asked, his voice dry. Peter glared at him. He brushed hair and sweat away from his face and tried to stand up straight, but pain shot through his muscles and he let his shoulders return to their defensive slouch before he responded to Claude's inquiry.

"I can't just forget about them," he said. "They aren't transitory, they're human beings."

"Yeah, yeah," Claude muttered, waving a hand dismissively. "Your friends and family, right? Forget it."

"You don't get it," Peter said, shaking his head. He carefully moved to the edge of the roof and looked down at the city below. He heard Claude's footsteps crunching on the roof, but he still jumped when the man's hand fell on his shoulder. He glanced up into the bright blue eyes, trying to decide if they ever held an emotion besides anger or apathy.

As he contemplated Claude's passivity and distance, the other man's eyes flicked up to gaze out at the bright lights of New York. Peter felt rather than heard the sigh that escaped Claude's lips before the other man began to speak.

"You're not up for givin' me much credit, are you?" he queried softly, the look in his eyes telling Peter that his mind was elsewhere. Still, Peter let ire rise in him at the ease with which Claude could dismiss human attachments and, shrugging away the man's hand, he sidestepped a few paces to put himself out of Claude's reach; his face set in a scowl.

After a stretching moment of silence, Claude's harsh laughter shattered through the night, and Peter felt his anger slowly mingling with sadness. Some sort of empathy for whatever unspoken pain the other man had gone through. He tried to shake it away, but his fight to hold onto his anger only served to strengthen the unwanted commiseration.

"I've been where you are," Claude's voice took over as the echo of his laughter died away. "Hell, I could've been you. All compassion and hope." He let out a sharp bark of laughter and Peter glanced at him out of the corner of his eye, waiting for the other man to continue speaking.

The silence stretched on. Peter's anger slowly cooled and he turned around, leaning against the low, brick wall at the edge of the roof and surveying Claude's form where the man stood in the darkness, gazing off into some distance that Peter could not see.

"People," Claude finally continued, his voice cracking with emotion, a sound Peter had never thought he would hear. Claude cleared his throat and tried again, "People are baggage. Baggage you don't need."

As Peter watched Claude's face struggle to maintain a blank expression, he couldn't help but think that Claude was referencing himself in a neutral way. Peter shook his head and turned his back on his city. He knelt down and lifted the wooden staff from where it had fallen.

"I can do it," he said, handing the staff to Claude. The other man shook his head and pushed it out of Peter's hands to again fall to the ground. He strode quickly up to Peter, looking down into the young man's face, his eyes brighter than Peter had ever seen them.

Before Peter could understand the emotions the other man was finally expressing, he found himself slammed back against the wall. Pain shot through his body as his back collided with brick, setting old bruises on fire; and he clenched his teeth as Claude's fingers dug into his biceps.

"You're the one that doesn't understand," Claude growled, his face inches from Peter's, hot breath tickling Peter's cheeks. "People, relationships, all of this being human crap, it's _all_ transitory! There's nothing that lasts." He stared down at Peter, his eyes boring into the younger man's for a brief moment before pushing him away, apathy returning to his expression. "Not even you," he muttered, striding to the edge of the roof. He shoved his hands deep into his overcoat pockets, Peter's cue to leave.

Peter didn't take it.

He'd finally seen Claude crack, he'd finally peered at what was behind that cold mask, and there was no way he would leave before he dug just a little deeper. He straightened up, ignoring the pain that shot through his back, and took a few steps towards Claude. He paused and glanced back at the bird houses behind him. The pigeons were docile, apparently oblivious to their master's plight.

Peter shook his head and returned his attention to Claude. He wasn't sure if the man knew he was still there or not, and he decided to proceed with the assumption that Claude thought he had left.

He cleared his throat, Claude didn't move. He stepped forward to stand behind the other man and laid a hand on his shoulder. Claude didn't jump, but he did turn his head to look back and catch Peter's concerned gaze with his now haunted expression.

"What happened to you?" Peter queried, keeping his voice soft the way like he did when he was with a patient. Claude shook his head.

"It doesn't matter," he said. "None of it matters. What they teach you, about true love and good conquering evil, all of it's just a bloody load of crap."

"No, it's not," Peter said, Claude shrugged away the younger man's hand and turned to face him.

"Look, Peter, I know that you're a bloody optimist, and that's fantastic. I'm happy for you. Giddy, see? I'll go and dance a jig just as soon as I learn how. But just because the world hasn't shit on you enough to bring you down doesn't mean it won't." He paused and took a deep breath, but before he could continue his rant, Peter held up a hand to cut him off.

"So just because you've been handed crap means you can bring everyone down to your level?" he queried. Claude shook his head in exasperation, glaring down at Peter.

"I'm not bringin' you down to anything," he said. "I'm telling it like it is, and I'm one of the few people that'll do that. This world is filled with fairy tales about knights in shining armor saving damsels from dragons, but in real life it's the dragons that win."

Peter shook his head and cautiously raised a hand to Claude's shoulder. He let his thumb brush lightly against the man's cheek, searching his eyes as emotions raged across them.

"Not always," Peter said. He leaned towards Claude, tilting his head up so their lips were almost touching. "Sometimes the knights win," he whispered before closing the distance and pressing his lips to Claude's.

The kiss was awkward for a moment, merely a meeting of lips, but slowly Peter felt Claude relax and his tongue flitted out past the older man's lips as they both stepped closer to each other. Peter felt Claude's hands press against his back, trailing up and down it lightly; even as he let his own hands trail up Claude's arms to his shoulders, and back.

They parted for air a few moments later; both panting, a silly grin adorning Peter's face as he pressed his forehead to Claude's. He laughed, but it died slowly when he saw that Claude's face had returned to its usual, blank expression.

Claude pushed Peter away and turned back to the city, as though the moment, the kiss, had never happened.

"It's all transitory," he muttered. "Even you."


End file.
